Confess
by MysteryGal5
Summary: Celeste, well-aware that she's dead, wounds up in America's hospital room post-heart attack instead of the afterlife. What could this all mean? (OS)


**Like always, I don't own these characters.**

 **I thought it would be best fitting to publish the one-shot you voted for the moment I hit one million archived words on this site!**

 **This has been one of the hardest fanfics for me to title yet it is also one of my best stories, I would say. I really hope you enjoy this!**

* * *

Confess:

My eyes blink rapidly as I adjust to the bright lights. Once my vision is set, I look down at my hands. Not only are they soft but my nails are perfectly round with a delicate French manicure on it. How exquisite... My hands suddenly find themselves feeling the soft fabric of the white dress I'm wearing. Not only is it breathable and short, but it's also expensive and with a silver belt wrapped around my waist to express my hourglass figure. The solid white stilettos on my feet and my hair done in round and luscious diva curls just make this whole ensemble better for me.

"Even in the afterlife, I am killing it!" I exclaim. (No pun intended since I got killed).

I know I'm dead. There's no surprise about that.

I want to cheer and rejoice at how sexy I look (and I haven't even seen my reflection in a mirror yet. I wonder how symmetrical my winged eyeliner is?)

I spin on my toes just to watch my dress' skirt billow out. It reminds me of a flower's bloom - graceful and satisfying to watch (especially for the one who's the flower). Once I decide to stop due to dizziness, I catch my balance and take in my surroundings.

It's a room that reeks of medical alcohol and fresh linens. Just over my shoulder, I see those machines you'd find in a hospitals. You know, the ones that monitor your heart rate? I don't know what they're called - I mastered in makeup, not medical technology. I completely turn around and lord behold, I see someone lying in a hospital bed. She's comatose, pale; she's -

 _Oh my god..._

It's - it's -

It's America.

America. _Freaking_. Singer.

I feel my body shiver and suddenly go cold at the sight of America in this condition. No, no, no, this can't be right. It can't be! Maxon was supposed to marry her! She was supposed to live happily ever after with him! She -

I stop my mental rant to take a few steps closer to her. My heels make an echoing sound in the silent room, even the transparent fluid dripping from the IV - thing! - makes no sound. I force myself to take a closer look at America no matter how much I don't want to. Her hair isn't as loud and vibrant as I remember it to be. It's calmed down into an elegant shade of rose gold. Her face, though lacking sunlight due to the florescent lights, is aged. Her hands are worn out, as if they have been working non-stop. That's when I notice the precious engagement ring and wedding band laced on her slender ring finger. I want to touch it but it's too valuable for even _me_ to touch.

\- already has. Currently is? In the middle of?

I'm so confused.

I probably should've said: America. _Freaking_. Schreave. Or Singer-Schreave. Whatever way she decided to go by.

I actually mean this when I say that I have absolutely no idea what is going on. How long have I been dead for? How long has _she_ been dead for? No, shut up Celeste. America isn't dead. She can't be. This is a hospital, not a morgue. Not only would she be the one to yell 'No!' in Death's face but her heart machine is beeping (slowly) but still, it's beeping! That means life!

(Barely).

"I swear, America," I mutter seriously, "don't make me get a megaphone to wake you up!"

I suddenly cross my arms and begin pacing across the hospital room, as if I'm mad at her for being like this. _Me_ , mad at _her_. My eyes never leave America. To the person who first said _'seeing is believing'_ , I'm calling bull. Absolute bull. I'm not believing that America is here. This is all a figment of the afterlife! A curse!

I grip my hands on the hospital's bed frame until my knuckles turn as white as my dress. That's when I let go. Each of my fingers feel as if they have their own heartbeat. My eyes still haven't left America as I get a closer look at her.

"I don't get it," I tell America as if she's listening, "how can you be unconscious and _still_ look pristine?"

I take a few steps towards America's bedside and brush a strand of hair out of her face. It won't make a difference to her if it was there or not but it gives me something to do. I start to shiver, my exhaling breath is shaky and ice cold. I cross my arms across my chest and rub down on the goosebumps.

For all my photoshoots, I resembled what society deemed to be perfect. Plump lips, luscious curves, gigantic curls, and more skin showing than fabric. To them, I was a doll that photographers would shape into a false reality they want to share with viewers. I was their doll - their puppet - and I enjoyed them playing around with me and my beauty. America looks like a porcelain doll right now - just not the way I did. She looks fragile and lifeless.

-o-

I've been too distracted by the situation that I forgot to ask myself why I'm here? Why is my dead spirit here, visiting America's comatose body? Why almost what seems like decades later? Although if you ask me, it's felt like only a flicker of light passed in my eyes. The last thing I remember was feeling my head explode during Maxon's announcement, then there was a white light, and now I'm here in a hospital, decades later, but I'm not the one who's in critical condition.

I sit on a chair by America's bedside, pondering about those thoughts and wondering how it all makes sense - _if_ it makes sense (which it mostly doesn't. I mean, isn't that why everyone is scared to die? Or why the concept of the afterlife is so scary?). There is the possibility that this is some sort of final test - some religions believe in that sort of thing.

With my leg crossed over the other, I twirl my ankle around, my stiletto dangling on my big toe. It eventually falls to the ground and I sigh, unwilling to pick it up. I spare a glance at America who hasn't changed one bit since I got here.

"There have been so many times during Maxon's Selection when I wished something like this would happen to you," I tell her, smiling a little at the morbid yet honest thought.

The only response there is comes from the beeping machine. I was hoping for a smile, a laugh, a _'I wished the same about you'_ \- something, dammit! Just something that would give me any sign of life!

I get up from my chair and pick up my shoe to put it back on. I can't take all this anymore. I shouldn't be here for many reasons: the obvious being that I'm dead - or died twenty years ago, and I don't even think America _liked_ me. I'm getting out of here, somehow. I should probably find a damn doctor to do his job. You'd think the palace medical wing would have more doctors present for the most important person in Maxon's life.

I head over to the door but stop when I hear voices coming from the other side. Even if they were to come in, would they be able to see me? I mean, people never see ghosts in the movies...

I lean against the door and try to pickup whatever the conversation may be. One part sticks out to me the most.

"He was spotted nearby The Newsome Library."

I'm taken aback. Did I hear that right or am I just being conceited? Is there really a Newsome Library? _Newsome_?! That's me!

I turn back to America and find my heart swelling up with absolute gratitude. There was no Newsome Library during Maxon's selection so either a new wing of the castle was built or they renamed something.

"Nobody's ever done anything like that for me before, America," I whisper to her, feeling tears form at the base of my eyes. "Nobody..."

The tears fall from my eyes and I do nothing about them. I didn't even think America _liked_ me and here she was naming a whole room after me.

-o-

"I demand to see her!" I hear a voice from outside the hospital room yell.

I suddenly perk up. I know that voice. The tone is different from the years that have passed here but even with the time, I still recognize it.

I head over to the door to see what's happening but it bursts open all on its own. I gasp, holding my chest and my racing heart. I can see him clearly but he obviously doesn't see me. That's probably for the better since this situation is already too much for him to handle. He's already freaked out.

Prince - or now King - Maxon Schreave. (Or maybe Maxon Singer because we all know how dominant of a person America is).

He is much older than when I last saw him: sandy blond hair almost grey, wrinkles appearing on his face, and glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. And to add to that, there's the obvious shock, insomnia, and stress from the sight of his unconscious wife on a hospital bed.

Off topic - but did I age in the afterlife?

 _Shut up, Celeste..._

I wave a hand in front of Maxon's face. I know it won't do anything since I'm technically not here but he's literally frozen on the spot, staring at America and I'm just doing with what my gut told me to do. Maxon quickly breaks free from his trance and falls on his knees by America's bedside, and he breaks down crying.

"My dear..." Maxon chokes out to her.

I bite my bottom lip and look away. I can't stand to see all this raw and powerful emotion coming from him. I can't imagine what this must be like for him. It would only be selfish of me to say that I understand what he's going through because I don't. I never will. If only I can comfort him but I can't. Even if I was actually in the room with him, what could I possibly say that would make this situation better?

I force myself to look back at Maxon, despite it hurting my heart. This is an example of true passion brought by pain. The longer I look, the more I realize that even if I lived, I would have never been able to find or experience the love that Maxon and America have for each other.

-o-

I'm in this room for what feels like hours. Maxon is no longer here after being dragged out for his own health, and America's recovery has made no progress. I pace around the room with my arms crossed. I can feel that my eyes are red and puffy from tears because of all this. Whoever said that death was liberating should get slapped across the face. I just feel more trapped.

I spot something on the side table and pick it up. It's a sleek and silver picture frame.

"Wow..." I mutter with awestruck in my voice. "That's a lot of kids..."

Inside is a picture of Maxon and America with their four beautiful children. I don't know whether or not this picture is recent but it doesn't matter because they have _four kids_.

I'm impressed. I wonder how America could've had four kids and not worry or care about stretch marks covering her body. I mean, I certainly would've but considering that she came from a big family, I assume that she would want the same.

"Four kids and your fate is hanging on a thread right now," I say to her as if she could hear me.

And like always, no response.

I take a breath.

"Okay, look," I start, "I have something I need to confess to you and even though you can't hear me, just listen. Maxon is wonderful. He's amazing. I never deserved to grow old with someone as compassionate as him. I know you know that but I just wanted you to know that I figured that out for myself. You're lucky, America, you truly are. By the end of The Selection, I knew Maxon would've picked you - maybe even before he knew for himself. The last vestiges of my life and vanity needed it to be you. You were my only threat in the competition and the thought of losing to anyone else was unacceptable. You and Maxon were made for each other. Only you are worthy of his heart."

Saying all that not only caused some tears to fall, but it also lifted this enormous weight off my shoulders. I finally feel liberated, as if those words were just chains that were keeping me here. I can go now but I can't with America still in this condition.

I take a deep breath as I face America again. There are no more tears in my eyes but a gaze of determination.

"C'mon, America..." I mutter. "Wake up!"

I lean over her body. I try to grab her shoulders but my hands phase right through her like a hologram. I look at my hands in shock.

"No, no, no..." I panic. "This can't be happening now! I need more time!"

I focus back on America. I put whatever energy I have left in her.

"Wake up, America!" I scream. "Wake up for me!"

I rethink that statement and immediately shake my head.

"Actually, no, scratch that. Don't wake up for me. I'm dead, who the hell cares. Wake up for your country, your friends, your family, your kids, Maxon - goddammit, America! Quit being stubborn and just wake up for yourself!"

Still no response.

If I could slap her awake I will.

I can feel all the hope leaving my body until I'm empty.

"America..." I whisper to her. "You can't go out like this. You deserve so much more. There is so much you are leaving behind. You have a life waiting for you beyond those closed eyes. You will go out with a bang as well, just not now and definitely not because of a heart attack. You will wake up and not only live your life but conquer it."

I can feel myself fading away, this time for good. But before I disappear forever, I see myself looking right into America's bright blue eyes.

* * *

 **This took weeks to write by hand onto paper and another couple of weeks to type. Wow. This is definitely one of my best works. I am so proud of it and I hope you are too. I never expected this fic to actually happen because I never thought I would write a story centered around Celeste, of all people. She deserved better, in my opinion. She didn't deserve to die. I think writing this actually made me appreciate her more.**

 **Anyways, I want to thank all of you for reading this story. Please leave me a review telling me what you think and go check out my other stories while you're at it. Also, if you have a story idea for me, I'm open to writing it.**

 **~ MysteryGal5**


End file.
